from last time...
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I actually have a lot to do, so I will write more later, once I have figured out what I’m doing.
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Dear Diary,
I need to organize my thoughts. Usually when I work on a story, I take notes. Lots and lots of notes. That is how I draw those brilliant conclusions that millions of people read. I write EVERYTHING down and then stare at it, until the answer jumps out at me. Since this story is a little more personal to me and I’m actively writing in this diary again (I finally admitted it’s a diary without joking around about it or anything! I AM making progress!), I thought I’d write everything in here, since I’ll eventually write it in here anyway. Between Linda and Lucy, the answer is here. I just have to organize and figure everything out…
Okay, we’ll start with Linda King (just to get her out of the way!):
So, at dinner, Linda told me the reason for her trip to Metropolis right now had to do with the skyrocketing success (of late) of the Metropolis Star. But not after first annoying me about Clark.
“Are you sad? Do you think about him day and night?” she asked, as if she cared or something. But with that look in her eyes that said she was just trying to REALLY get under my skin.
“He’s never far from my thoughts,” I lied. Because he IS my thoughts. Every thought is devoted to that man. But I couldn’t ADMIT that. It made me seem like such a, I don’t know… girl. But Linda smiled, like she knew some secret. She can be so righteous!
“So, Linda… since I didn’t come to dinner to discuss Clark with you…” I said, giving her an encouraging look.
“Right. The recent booming sales of the Metropolis Star… This whole thing is a lot like what happened last year with my ex-boss, wouldn’t you agree?” Linda asked, throwing a strand of red, now mid-back length hair over her shoulder and smiling at me deviously.
You know, seeing her wasn’t like I thought it would be. It most certainly wasn’t like it was last year. I’ll be the first to admit, she looked good. The teasing in her tone, even, was no longer really mischievous, but rather good-natured (as good natured as she can be, anyway). She seemed happier about her life or something, and in turn less interested in knocking me down a few notches. She still poked fun at me any chance she got, but I think it was to see how I’d react, like she thought it was a fun game or something.
“Ah, yes. The jailbird, Preston Carpenter,” I said, sipping wine.
“That name gives me chills,” she said. “And not in a good way.”
“I’ll bet,” I said.
A look on her face made me suddenly feel a little bad for her. I mean, Paul in college and Preston Carpenter. Two men in authority positions that made her into nothing but a pretty face and a sex object. Don’t get me wrong, she was not Little Miss Innocent in either situation. But while Paul had been a senior hottie, Preston Carpenter was a dirty old man and her boss. Her real boss in the real world. Not college. How many other men, I wondered, had put Linda in that position? It made me feel bad because we’d been friends once, and seeing her tonight, I could actually remember why. I could remember her good qualities. How she could challenge anything, just to have a battle of wits. How she’d tease and you’d see a happy glimmer in her eyes. Freshman year, she was the only girl I’d met who had goals and aspirations and a brain in her head that told me she could accomplish them. We’d been friends. And just now, I felt bad that that road in life she’d paved for herself had hit a few bumps she couldn’t have wanted or foreseen.
“Anyway,” she said, after a long moment, breaking me from those thoughts, “I came here to find out what I could. You see, that old man who drove off the cliff? He was my grand-uncle.”
My mouth fell open. “Your grand-uncle? There has to be a connection! I mean, Carpenter must have wanted revenge on you for putting him away. And he was always obsessed with the Star being the number one paper in Metropolis,” I said in a hurry. Then, remembering myself, I cleared my throat. “And I’m very sorry for your loss,” I amended. There, I felt a little better.
She waved her hand. “I barely knew him. But he was my only remaining relative.”
“That’s it? You have no other family?” I asked. I realize now, of course, that I was probably not making the said loss of her only remaining relative less painful.
“No. No family, but lots of friends,” she said, and I guess I made a face at that because she laughed. “Okay, I wasn’t always the best friend and made moves to get all the attention when I was younger, but believe it or not, I have a lot of friends now. Actually, because of you.”
“Because of me?”
“Yeah. When I ruined our friendship, I had no more friends. It was pretty lonely. And when Paul and I broke up, I realized it was a good situation to have friends in, but I didn’t have any. So I started treating people better, would you believe it, and made quite a lot of friends in the following years, and have been as good to them as they’ve been to me, and now… they’re my family. I’ve learned, you don’t have to be related to people by blood to call them family. So don’t feel sorry for me because I lost a grand-uncle I barely knew. I don’t think of myself as an orphan. Anymore, anyway.”
Her words immediately made me think of Clark. He wasn’t blood related to the Kents. I knew that, of course, but I hadn’t actually consciously thought about it until Linda gave that whole spiel about blood and family and stuff. I never saw a closer family in my life than the Kents. They would all do anything for each other and told each other everything. I know Clark loves them so much and would protect them with everything in him, which was probably a main reason he hid his secret so well. To protect them. And everyone else he knew. But I didn’t want to think about Clark just then, so I got back on track, steering the conversation back to Linda’s theories about Carpenter.
“So the man who drove off that cliff was related to you? You, the woman who put the editor-in-chief of the Metropolis Star behind bars over a year ago,” I claimed, just to get it all straight and be sure we were on the same page.
“There’s more,” she said.
“More than that? Spill it,” I said, feeling like a Freshman in college, again, actually. That first semester, when Linda and I had become friends, we’d sit for hours talking about potential stories about the football team and student-teacher sex scandals and whatnot in the café in the quad. We were both so excited to be out of silly high school and in serious college where we could be serious journalists (I know, I know, but we were young!).
“Well, that nursing home that burned down? He was a resident there. He happened to be out the day of the fire, though.”
My mouth fell open. “Well, someone certainly wanted to finish that job. Poor man probably thought he got out lucky, not being there when the place burned down. But that doesn’t explain why someone would also burn down the daycare center. And why they’d send another car off a cliff at the same time as his.”
“This is why I’m here,” she said. That got me. I mean, she hasn’t been actively reporting since she moved to Hollywood to make that movie and now she rides in all high and mighty. We have the biggest case of the year, possibly, right here, and I’m on it! I am an investigative reporter and have won numerous awards for being one (even though I know, when discussing these awards the other day I was ready to return them all, but that was for a personal reason. Professionally I deserved them! A whole committee of people thought so, anyway.).
“Oh, well, if YOU’RE here,” I said, with much attitude.
“Relax, Lois. I meant I’m here to tell you what I think, since I used to be on the inside at that paper.”
“Oh.” I pouted, knowing I looked pretty foolish.
“Okay, the new editor-in-chief is this guy—“
“Henry David, I know,” I said.
“Henry and I were good friends. He didn’t like Preston much and used to say in emails to me, after I stopped working there that Preston was so stupid. That he sort of had the right idea about selling papers but went about it all wrong. He said something about forming the public’s opinion, not just having reporters at certain scenes as they unfolded. He said if he were Preston Carpenter, he wouldn’t have been so stupid and would have sold much more papers.”
I nodded. This was good. This definitely seemed like someone crazy enough to take Preston Carpenter’s scandal up a few notches in heat. And two fires ARE pretty hot. Just one thing… “But if you’re his friend, why would HE target your only remaining relative?”
“He came to California shortly after I quit and asked me out. I said no.”
“You always have attracted the winners,” I said, dryly.
“I told him,” she continued, like she hadn’t heard me, “that I was trying to get a new life for myself together, and I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. In reality, between you and me, he was about as high as my shoulders and balding, and well, I like a guy more like… Clark. The gentle, sweet and gorgeous type. Unfortunately, he seems to be the only one of the kind on this planet, and he’s spoken for,” she said. She smirked at me, knowing she made me blush, and continued. “Anyway, Henry took the rejection pretty badly, saying I’d be sorry when he was rich and famous, making the Metropolis Star the number one paper in the whole world. Then I would wish I had married him or something crazy like that. I thought he was nuts. I wished him luck, though, reminding him that after the Carpenter scandal, numbers were way down and the paper was in danger of being shut down.”
“Great. Gasoline on the fire,” I said.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” she said, leaning forward. I leaned forward too, like she was about to reveal the secrets of the universe to me. “Henry is brilliant. His writing is amazing. He can spin any story and make you believe it. And he always loved a real challenge, something that made him work especially hard. He mixes logic with emotion and can really make you doubt opinions you thought you had. He is from a family of politicians,” she added, rolling her eyes. “He’s incredibly smart. But one thing he couldn’t do if he wanted to is orchestrate a crime. Not like Preston. When it comes to those kind of logistics, he’s a complete amateur.”
She sat back and looked at me with her eyebrows raised.
I took this in. I started thinking out loud.
“So maybe he went to him for help. But he hated him. And why would Preston Carpenter help this man? Unless there was something in it for him…and this all still doesn’t explain about the daycare center and the other car…”
“Do you know how to get the truth out of a man, Lois?” she asked cunningly.
“I’ll ask. How, Linda?”
“Take them right to the edge. And then, they’ll tell you. Which is why I’m going to see an old friend tomorrow. My old boss,” she said, standing up and putting a $20 on the table.
I sat back and thought about everything we’d discussed.
“And Lois?”
I looked up at her.
“Don’t let him get away.”
“Huh?” I asked. Don’t let Carpenter get away? Henry? I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Clark,” she said.
Oh.
“Whatever happened… it’s not worth it. Not this time,” she added after a moment.
She looked at me intently and sort of knowingly and then walked out of the restaurant.
Clark… yeah, so this is not the time to think about what Linda said regarding Clark, and to ponder my relationship (or lack thereof) with him. God knows I’ve been doing that enough lately anyway. I need to think about the other things Linda mentioned. But while I let these notes sit and the ink dry, I’ll get going on what Lucy said.
Lucy took this whole class and was really interested in this yellow journalism thing (it really made her want to be a reporter, until I became one and she decided reporting must be for boring people… real nice sister, huh?). Anyway, here are the basics, as compiled from my sister and the internet:
The most basic description: Yellow journalism is a type of journalism in which sensationalism triumphs over factual reporting.
The more detailed:
In the 1890s, there were these intense newspaper wars between Joseph Pulitzer, of the New York World, and William Randolph Hearst, of the Journal. Newspapers began to compete more and more with one another to increase circulation and obtain more advertising revenue. The result: Yellow Journalism (“YJ” from now on). YJ was basically sensational and scandalous news coverage, which used more drawings and less writing.
It was common for a newspaper to report the editor's interpretation of the news rather than objective journalism. (Hmmm…) And if the information reported was inaccurate or biased, the American public had little means for verification. With this sort of influence, the newspapers had a lot of political power. The reporting included the use of colorful adjectives, exaggeration, a careless lack of fact-checking for the sake of a quick breaking news story, or even deliberate falsification of entire incidents.
Probably the most famous anecdotal example of YJ is often repeated as having come from Hearst, who sent an illustrator to Cuba to report on the Spanish-American War (“the first press-driven war”). The story goes that the guy wired home, saying that all seemed peaceful and that he wished to return. Hearst is reputed to have replied, in a telegram, "You furnish the pictures, and I'll furnish the war."
Ooh, a direct quote from the internet: “journalism of the 1890s used melodrama, romance, and hyperbole to sell millions of newspapers—“
Also, YJ relied on sensationalist headlines to sell newspapers.
And that’s basically the gist of it. (Lucy said to rent Newsies if I am still confused). But I get it. There’s more to it than I’ve written here; I am not being completely detailed, but this is not a report for school. It’s a diary entry, and a pretty boring one at that, considering I have not once gone off about the matters of my heart (is that a good thing? Maybe I am over this whole Clark-thing!..)
Clark…
I smile when I picture him, even still. His smile. His laugh. His warm body. His welcome arms. His nature and his eyes. His chest, his heart… he’s so…
Oh, Clark.
So that covers it. I guess I’m not. Over it, I mean. But it was nice to focus on work for an entire evening.
And now I am going to bed.
Goodnight!
Dear Diary,
It’s 3 am and I just have a thought I want to get down:
What would a man who wanted to mold the public’s opinion with a sensational story, who loved a good challenge write about?
I know one thing… I’d feel pretty brilliant if I could make people believe that the hero of millions was our enemy.
Just a thought…
Will get back to that in the morning.
Dear Diary,
It’s 3:07 am now. One more thought. It’s kind of random.
You know what I miss? Doughnuts. I haven’t had a doughnut (donut?) in over two weeks. I know I could get myself a doughnut in the morning, but it’s not the same as when… when one is brought TO me. Besides, the taste of them reminds me of... of better days. I miss…
…doughnuts.
Okay, and NOW to bed!
Dear Diary,
So, it’s Sunday now and Linda called me. Let’s just say I hung up with her and immediately called Perry to set up a press conference for tomorrow morning. And while I’m at it, let me just say one more thing: Superman is about to be saved.
I’m happier than I should be considering I’m still mad at him. I mean… aren’t I? I don’t even know anymore. It’s very frustrating. One second I hate him and want him out of my life and want to turn my back on him forever. The next second, the world feels the same way and I’ve never been one to agree with the world, so there you’ve got me.
I guess in the end, he is still my best friend. And someone I really care about. So… I will save him. After all, he’s acting like such a sad victim, I know he’s not about to save himself. He needs me. Plus, this whole thing is beyond wrong on so many levels, and I am nothing if not Mad Dog Lane down deep and cannot just sit idly by and let this happen. Henry David, meet the wrath of Lois Lane. Tomorrow, that is. That man will not know what hit him.
I rented Newsies and am watching that right now, as I write. Purely for research purposes. Okay, okay—the decision to rent it was also partly brought about by boredom. I’ll admit it… my days (and especially my weekends) have been pretty boring for the last two weeks. I guess I never realized how much of my free time was spent with him…
I have to say, I have the utmost respect for anyone who looked at that ugly Yellow Journalism thing and thought “this would make a great musical!”
Lucy and Jimmy are on their way over. I needed some help with a little addition to my press conference. Something that will knock the pedestal right out from under him. Henry, I mean. Not Jimmy.
I haven’t seen Clark this weekend. I was worried yesterday that he might try to leave like he said he was going to. I checked the news and saw that he had prevented a plane from crashing (the man who used to tell me that in his spare time, he relaxed and read books and took the occasional walk in the park) and then was helping the pilots discover what had gone wrong. I used that time to head over to his apartment and make sure, I don’t know, that it was still there or something.
I walked in and stood on the landing (I didn’t break in, calm down, I had a key). I took in the familiar room before me. The couch we had sat on a million times, talking, laughing, working, watching movies, making out (more recently, that is). The kitchen where he had cooked me so many wonderful meals, which always smelled of… something good…. it smelled like… home. It’s strange… the house that I grew up in never smelled of good home-cooking, and was never bubbling over with Partridge Family-like love. How would I know what ‘home’ smelled like? But that is what Clark’s kitchen always smelled like to me… which was why I always loved visiting him. Even before we started dating. His place was always like a fuzzy blanket in the cold, a happy place… a safe place.
The phone rang, while I was standing there, and I remember jumping, like someone had come up behind me with a gun. I almost turned and ran out of the apartment, knowing he could come in any second… but I just stood there, listening to the phone ring three times, knowing it would lead to his answering machine message and I could hear his voice. And okay, I kind of wanted to hear what kind of message he’d get. I’m nosy, I know. I’m a reporter! Anyway, it was Martha. Ask yourself how bad you’d feel if you were me listening to this:
“Hi honey. Just calling to say… give it time. She’ll come around. Lois is smart, honey. She was hurt and you have to understand that. She is smart though, and she loves you; I know she does. And I know how much you love her. Just hang on. Love always wins in the end. And you are NOT coming back home to Smallville. You are staying in Metropolis or your father and I will not speak to you. And I’m also calling to remind you to eat. I can tell from TV that you’re not eating. You should, though. Your body is used to it, and enough days could lead to… well I don’t know. But eat. I love you. Call me.”
When the message beeped, signaling its end, I inhaled deeply. I couldn’t smell anything. There was no aroma coming from the kitchen, to indicate a meal had been cooked there recently. I wondered just how long Clark had been going without eating. And when I thought back to the news program, I thought he did look different. I hadn’t been sure what the difference was, but now I could tell. He was a little thinner. Paler. He looked exhausted. All in all—he looked like he wasn’t taking care of himself right.
I left his apartment, knowing that he was not about to leave… yet. His stuff was still all scattered around. My heart suddenly felt heavy with concern for my best friend and… I don’t know… something else… so I went back home to bury myself in my work.
But I am not hiding from my feelings! I swear! I am merely trying to save his butt so I can then focus on my heart and figure out what’s making that thing tick… or beat, rather.
“Open the gates and seize the day!” This movie has pretty good music! I fully intend to seize the day and end this new-age YJ-thing, just like those newsboys in the movie. Yeah! Positive thinking…
Ooh, Lucy and Jimmy are here to help me execute Mission: Possible. You see, I named it this because Clark seems to think this whole thing is impossible, whilst I keep an optimistic air about me. Hmm… usually it’s the other way around. NOT THE POINT. Gotta go.
Will write more later!
Dear Diary,
Mission: Possible is all a-go! And not a moment too soon—Linda just called and told me the headline for tomorrow’s edition of The Metropolis Star is ‘SUPERMAN SAYS: YOU LIVE, YOU DIE. Brilliant, huh? It’s about that plane Clark prevented from crashing yesterday (which he made a statement on TV saying went down because of ‘faulty wiring’). When it crashed, another plane went down in another part of the world. Those people didn’t live. I am shocked beyond words that no one has caught onto all these amazing ‘coincidences’ that have been happening lately (only in the Star, no less), regarding Superman’s rescue efforts.
But oh well, that all ends tomorrow!
I am too excited to write!
Dear Diary,
They came. So many of them came. My hands are shaking so much, I’m not sure how I’m writing legibly. And I am not sure how I managed to run a press conference either! But I did. I can’t remember a thing I said, but Jimmy taped it. And someone from the Planet had a transcript ready practically a half hour later, so I will paste here what was said… and write who, in the end, was arrested (probably not hard to guess that one, huh?)
Okay, I’ll set the scene.
Centennial Park, Monday, 10 AM. A beautiful day. Green grass, blue sky. Lots of people…
I decided to hold this conference in a public place, as it was not just open to the press. It couldn’t even, for that matter, really be called a press conference. I had something to say… and I wanted the public to hear it for themselves.
So I was standing on this platform, searching through the crowd for a particular person’s face… someone I hadn’t seen at work in the morning and was frantically wondering about the location of. Clark. I was looking for Clark. But there were too many people. You see, I had Lucy and Jimmy act as my hollering newsboys, so to say, like in Newsies. When they came over last night, we had made flyers with the information about the conference, which was titled “GOD OR SUPERMAN: COME FIND OUT”. Lucy and Jimmy managed to get those flyers put up all over Metropolis (with the help of a few of Jimmy’s friends) and handed out to as many people as possible and as a result… well, there were definitely way too many faces for me to be able to possibly spot my partner in the crowd.
So locating Clark seemed to be a lost cause just then, and Perry was impatiently pointing at his watch (he had no idea what kind of mission I was on), as I was running a few minutes behind. So I decided to get started.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I started—and that was as far as I got before Henry David butted in
“Miss Lane, the public is not usually included at press conferences.”
“Well, Mr. David, I have my reasons,” I said in a chilly tone, trying to suppress my nerves.
He looked around him, back at the public, and took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. I could tell he was very annoyed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I started again, shooting Henry David a quick, pointed look that said I knew what I was doing and he SHOULD be afraid, before looking at the confused faces of the public again. “There are a few things I want to discuss here today. The first thing is Superman. Now, before you all start booing him and telling him to leave again, I just want to say a few words.” I looked around. I’d gone over this speech in my head all night last night. And now—I had confidence. “Tsunami. Space Station Prometheus. Pheromone. Lex Luthor. Intergang. Bureau 39. Cyborgs. Clones. Preston Carpenter. Invisible Man. The Toasters. Metro Gang. Car crashes. Fires. Plane crashes. Wars… Superman. Could you please raise your hand if your life has ever been spared by one of Superman’s efforts?”
I looked around, pleased to see many hands shoot, if hesitatingly at first, into the air.
“Okay. I can see how many people have been saved in individual efforts. Now I am going to add one more word to that list I just gave. Then, please, another show of hands.” I waited two seconds (for dramatic effect). “Asteroid.”
At that, the hands of everyone (minus Henry David) at the conference rose into the air. I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
“Everyone here. And let’s just picture the hands raised of everyone that is not here, too, also raised. Because over a year ago, Superman saved the world. The whole world. The population of the world last year, by the way, was five billion, 533 million, 677 thousand and sixty-four. He risked his life when he saved us that time. He never even thought about it. He did it because he came here to help, as he stated when he first arrived. He came to do whatever he could do. Without hesitation or doubt, he comes in and saves the day, sparing the lives of so many people as a result. He does it every single day. He wants to do it. He just wants so badly… to help. And we’ve all been affected by him. Whether he’s saved our lives or the life of one of our friends or family members or just given us hope in a desperate situation, he has affected us with the things he can do.”
I looked around, seeing people begin to nod their heads slowly, taking it in.
“How can we hold against him the things he can’t do? You see, Superman never claimed to be God. He never claimed to be able to save everyone all the time and in every situation. As a matter of fact, I know for a fact that it tears him up when he can’t get there in time—when someone dies. Even if he was saving someone else at the time, he hates to see a situation where he could’ve helped if he had been there. Cops and firemen, in addition to other professionals in other fields, face that same kind of torment. They harbor those same kinds of demons,” I said, looking to the right where I had asked the Metropolis PD and Fire Department to stand. They were all nodding their heads, solemn expressions on their faces. Henderson looked bored, like he knew all this and had something better he could be doing, but whatever. He stayed.
“Everyone has been telling him to leave lately. Telling him he’s not welcome anymore. And I am pretty sure that he is now considering doing it. Leaving.” At that, I could hear shocked murmurs in the crowd. Perfect. “Now, in one sense, if he left, at the first sign of a crisis or danger, we would want him back. And that’s okay… that’s not selfish—it’s the human condition. We want to continue living, right? Superman has saved us so many times, that we believe he can save us in a crisis. We want him to. More importantly, though… if he left, what would we believe in? Because even in the times where he can’t save someone, he at least gives them hope. He gives us all hope. He is good and kind and wants justice to persevere. He’s honest… and what he does is completely selfless. He’s never wanted anything from us in return for what he does. I just think we’ve all lost track of some of these important things lately. The Metropolis Star has given everyone here food for thought, which has led to this way of thinking. This leads me to the other thing I wanted to discuss today.”
I looked around, wanting to make sure everyone was still with me. They all looked immensely interested now (except for Henry David—he looked about ready to explode). I spotted Linda off to the side of the crowd. She winked when I looked her way. A good sign—this meant she had the evidence she said she would have. This gave me the ammunition to continue strongly.
“Somebody is ‘playing God’, so to say. Somebody IS abusing their power. And it’s not Superman. How strange is it that that retirement home and daycare center downtown went up in flames simultaneously? How strange is it that two cars went off cliffs on opposite sides of town at the exact same time, both due to cut wires on the brakes? How strange is it that yesterday two planes went down, also due to faulty wiring? We all know that Superman cannot be in two places at once. Why is this an issue now? There have, for sure, been times in the past where someone died when Superman was saving someone else. It happens. It’s always been there, as the worst part of his job and just a cold, hard, realistic fact. The Star is the only paper covering these current stories, intending to make a monster out of him because of it—now. It uses photographs that show him shrugging nonchalantly, as if he sat back and whistled “Home On the Range” while a car fell off a cliff before his eyes. It uses testimonials from people who are grieving for the loss of loved ones, who were wondering where Superman was. In a moment of grief, you want something to put your anger on, someone to blame. For a moment, some grief-stricken people were angry at Superman, because he was busy saving someone else and they suffered.”
I looked around. And now, the closing: “I’ll bet you’ve all heard the famous quote from William Randolph Hearst, ‘you furnish the pictures and I’ll furnish the war.’” I saw many people nodding their heads. “This was from a period in the 1890s called Yellow Journalism, which was basically sensational and scandalous news coverage. It used more pictures and less facts. It sold papers by turning life into a cheap melodrama. It relied on sensationalist headlines to sell newspapers. It INTERPRETED the news in a way that would basically increase the paper’s revenue. And basically, in the end, it lied to the general public. I could be wrong, but what Henry David is doing with his paper right now, sounds a whole lot like Yellow Journalism.”
Linda came up on stage at this point and told the people who she was and said she had a little something to share with them:
“Henry David is an idiot,” the tape started.
“That’s Preston Carpenter, the former editor-in-chief of the Metropolis Star,” she explained to the people.
“He had a good idea,” the voice of Preston Carpenter continued, “to stage some events, and instead of just reporting them, going that extra step to help coerce the public to think Superman is the enemy. But he has no idea how to cover his freaking tracks.” (Note—the tape did not say freaking… but I want to keep this diary PG). “Those fires have arson written all over them, and he had his men at that scene as that thing started. He had two employees at the car shop where those cars were tampered with. He came to me for help and I helped him figure out how to stage incidents, so to say, but he’s not an executioner. Not at all. One of his men was at the Metropolis Airport before that plane took off, and snuck off and then decided not to fly on that flight. He sold more papers with his way of doing things, but I’ll be shocked if he makes it another week before becoming my cellmate,” he said with a gruff laugh.
“Me too,” Linda’s voice said.
And then she stopped the tape.
I saw Henry David getting ready to book it, but Henderson—good old Henderson—was right there, handcuffs ready, backup with him. Henry looked at me and Linda like he wanted to kill us. But then Henderson turned his face away from us and led him to his car and out of my sight forever.
I looked at Linda. “All right!” I said, super impressed by that tape. I know, since I was holding the conference, that I was supposed to act like I knew about the tape and what was on it and not act all excited like that, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t think the tape would have that much on it! Wow! I have to find out just exactly what she did to get him to open up like that! Hm… maybe I don’t want to know.
I looked back at the people, content that they’d heard enough. Enough to know what the Metropolis Star was all about and enough to know what Superman, more importantly, was all about.
It was as I was getting ready to walk off the platform that I noticed a woman standing near me, on it. She looked scared out of her mind.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“I…” she walked over to the microphone. “I, um, I held one of those signs,” she said, all ashamedly. I felt bad for her. But proud too, because she was really really shaking, but was addressing everyone, all the same. “I held one of those awful signs, with a line through his picture. I… I want to apologize to him. To Superman. Where is he?” she asked timidly, turning to me for the answer.
“I’m not—“ I started.
“I’m right here.”
Clark… as Superman… walked onto the platform. I hadn’t been that close to him since that anti-Superman rally outside the Planet. This… this was a much better atmosphere to be seeing him in, because the moment he got on that platform, the whole crowd starting applauding. The look on his face was… it made everything even more worth it. He smiled genuinely.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Superman, I am so sorry,” that woman said again. “My name is Debra Green and I held one of those silly signs. I didn’t think about any of those things that Miss Lane said, I just believed the other stuff… I feel so stupid,” she said, looking ready to cry. But looking a little starstruck too. She kept looking Clark up and down. It was starting to make me, well, want to escort her offstage. And turn her around.
“You are stupid,” someone from the crowd said. “So am I.”
“Me too!” voices began to chime.
The ‘me too’s’ were mixed with lots of ‘I’m sorry’s’.
“I do not think anyone here is in any way stupid,” Clark said. “I just don’t think ANYONE, even those in the newspaper industry, realize how powerful the media is. People tend to believe what they read, especially when they read it in a respectable newspaper. The Metropolis Star has always been a respectable paper in this city—“
I muttered something under my breath at that, which made Clark look at me in that warning way that he used to always look at me. It was like old times. I smiled coyly. “—until recently,” I amended.
“Please stay,” Debra Green said. Although she looked like she wanted to say ‘Please stay and I’ll buy you dinner’.
Clark smiled. It was then that I realized how much I missed his smile. In the past, it’s always made everything right with my life. Just then, I realized how much was still wrong with my life (even if I had succeeded in saving him, so to say). How much I needed that smile to make things right again.
“I would love to stay and help in any ways that I can, if I’m welcome to,” he said.
The crowd erupted with applause and cheering and my heart felt like it was soaring. He was going to stay! I was so elated, I could barely think!
After Clark—or Superman, rather—answered some questions from members of the press regarding the faulty wiring on the planes that went down the day before, he walked over to me. I was standing way away from everyone, where no one would overhear us, should he come and talk to me (which, okay, I had hoped he would).
As he approached, I got a familiar (and okay, excited) feeling of butterflies in my stomach. I could feel my heart rate speed up. I was nervous. Actually nervous to talk to my best friend.
“Lois,” he said, when he was close to me. “Thank you. You really saved me this time,” he said.
“Well, I think I might have owed you one,” I said, which made him (and then me) laugh.
“I… I couldn’t have done that myself. Everything you said, I mean, I think somewhere I knew it… but I was too close to it. I was ready to give up without a fight. You fought for me and you won. I’ll never forget that,” he finished.
“Sometimes even the hero of millions needs saving. I think you, too, need to have hope in a crisis that someone might come in and rescue you when you need it.”
He smiled, sort of sadly.
“So you’re staying, then?” I asked, casually. Well, I tried to make it seem casual anyway.
“Superman is.”
“What about… what about you?” I asked, feeling something sinking in me.
He shrugged, doing a miserable job at shielding the pain in his eyes. “I can’t,” he said.
“You’d leave just because we’re not together?”
“Yeah. I never claimed to be some independent person who doesn’t need anyone. That was you. I need you. I don’t want to sit by knowing I can’t have you. Not after… not after I know what it’s like. To be able to love you openly and see that you love me too. I know what that’s like, Lois. And if we can’t have that back, I can’t be here. Not now anyway. Maybe someday. But not this day. And not tomorrow either.”
“But if you can just give me time…” I started, lamely.
“If you don’t know now, Lois, you won’t know any time soon.”
“But I’m just all confused. I just need to get a clear head. I can’t pick up what we had again unless I have a clear head, or else it won’t work!”
“You’ll always know how to find me,” he said.
“You told me once that you have run away from things your whole life. How is this any different?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips and pouting, putting on my best ‘huh, Mister?’ face.
“In the past I’ve run away out of fear. Now… my heart is broken,” he said, his voice quivering. He looked down, attempting (it seemed) to get his emotions in check.
“This is so unfair. I didn’t do anything, and I feel like I’m being punished for it. Ever since your moment of truth, I have felt bad for you! This whole thing with the press, seeing you sulking around at work. I’ve felt tortured and punished, but I was the one who was lied to. It just seems really unfair,” I said, tears falling now.
He shook his head. “I know.”
“Superman!” someone called from the park. With one last look at me, he walked away.
Wiping my eyes, I walked over to where Linda was standing and she filled me in on her little dance of seduction that turned Carpenter on and brought him to the edge, as she puts it (he always did have a strong thing for her, but my GOD… she can really go far to get the truth out!) and got him to talk about everything. She said Carpenter only helped because he felt like he was working again and not in jail. We were joking about the look on Carpenter’s face when he discovers his sentence is about to be added to and he’s going to be receiving a new roomie when this guy ran over to us.
“Linda!” he said.
“Kevin, what are you doing here? Aren’t you filming?”
He smiled at her. “I pushed production back a week. I was worried about you,” he said.
“A week? That’s going to cost millions,” she said, her eyebrows sky-high.
“I don’t care. I found out from Lynne Sears that you came here, to butt heads again with Preston Carpenter. Last time, you know the time we’re making a movie about—he tried to, and practically did, kill you,” he said, all out of breath. He was a handsome enough man, brownish-red hair and green eyes. Not really in shape. But not out of it either. Taller than Linda… and clearly in love.
“Lois, this is Kevin Thompson. Kevin, this is Lois Lane,” Linda said, realizing that I was still standing there.
“THE Kevin Thompson?” (He’s like this huge film producer… after Steven Speilberg and Ron Howard, it’s Kevin Thompson!)
“THE Lois Lane?”
“Nice to meet you.”
We spoke all that together, looking like a couple of idiots, I have to say.
“I still can’t believe that you risked millions of dollars to come here and see me,” Linda said, really looking shocked and almost at a loss for words. Almost. This IS Linda King, remember.
“You always said you wanted someone who would make the ultimate gesture for you,” he said.
“Kevin…”
“In case you never noticed, I’ve been really… REALLY… in love with you. Ever since I met you. When you left last week, I realized how serious it was. When Lynne told me where you were, I was beside myself with worry. I wasn’t trying to make a gesture because you told me once you wanted the ultimate gesture. But if that’s what this is—“
“I think that is what this is…” she said, looking surprised… and really pleased. “Um… well, let’s go grab a bite to eat or something…” she said, all dreamy-eyed.
“Okay,” he said. He, too, looked like a seventh grader at a school dance.
“Lois… the ultimate gesture,” she said, winking. Then they started to walk away.
“Linda!” I called. She turned around.
“Um, you have my email and now I have yours too… let’s, uh… maybe keep in touch. Better this time,” I added.
She smiled. Beamed, really. “I’ll email you when I get back,” she said.
And the two walked off happily.
A quick scan of the park revealed what I feared… Clark was gone.
Now I am home, and my mind is reeling.
He is about to leave. I don’t want him to. But my head is too much of a mess for me to pretend I want to jump back into a relationship. I mean, he lied to me about something HUGE. I trusted him more than anyone. How could I get back into a relationship with him with a clear head? With an actually completely clear head… and heart for that matter.
I wish so badly that this was a story, and not my life. If it were a story, I’d do what I do. Even if everything seemed impossible, I’d have my evidence, my story notes, my instincts and they’d all combine until the answer came to me. As a result, I always have a clear head when I am working and writing a story. If I could just stare at notes or SOMETHING, where the answers were hidden inside. Oh my god…
Hang on.
Dear Diary,
I am so stupid. So, so stupid. But now… my head is clear. I just hope I’m not too late. It’s Monday night, around 11:30 PM. And I just HOPE I am not too late.
Will write more later.
Again, wish me luck...
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